Encounter
Encounter
It was a deep, moonless night, the darkness so thick it seemed to seep into the skin.
In the forest where the waning moon had set, the air carried that cool, heavy scent peculiar to the stillness before a downpour.
Through the damp and shadow a steady rhythm cut the silence.
Shhk. Shhk.
The whisper of a whetstone gliding along a blade, each stroke sharper and more defined than the last.
At the center of that sound was a campfire.
Smoke coiled upward from the flickering flame, and a man seated on a fallen log worked his hands with practiced economy.
He honed the longsword, paused to lift a waterskin, and let a thin stream wash the steel clean.
Metal filings sloughed off and scattered across the ground.
The man's face held a faint, complicated brooding as he tended the edge.
He had hired on with a mercenary company for the battle on the plains called Nechagni.
The pay was decent enough, and he'd come away with spoils, but none of it brought him any satisfaction.
In the end he'd had to kill. A vague understanding drifted through his mind—that this was a sensation he would never fully grow accustomed to.
But a man had to eat.
He adjusted his grip on the freshly polished sword, this piece of the battle's aftermath, and raised it to eye level.
The blade caught the pale moonlight and glinted back at him from teal eyes.
Aslan studied the cold gleam, then lowered the longsword.
Crack.
A sound reached him.
A dry branch snapping underfoot.
His expression hardened as he turned toward the noise.
Beyond the faint glow that reached the tree shadows, something approached.
From that darkness came the heavy rasp of weapons being drawn, the creak of bowstrings being pulled taut, the click of crossbows being leveled.
As those scattered noises filtered through the trees, Aslan tightened his grip on the longsword he had been about to set aside.
He could guess who they were and why they had come.
Of course, that changed nothing, but he still had to ask.
He grabbed a full waterskin from among those leaning against the log and rose to his feet.
At the same time he roughly hefted the crude round shield lying at his feet and quickly lashed its strap to his arm.
Beyond the tree shadows, more than twenty bodies stirred at once.
Hurried footfalls, the rustle of cloth, the creak of leather, and the distinctive metallic resonance of arms and armor rang out.
Crossbows taking aim. Spear shafts being re-gripped. Longswords sliding free of their scabbards. The sounds came from every direction.
They'd stopped hiding. They were making noise because they were confident they could finish the job even after being discovered.
Aslan swept his gaze across the dark that held those sounds and spoke.
"...What exactly is it you came here to do?"
His weary, rough-edged voice traveled out into the forest.
The tired tone and his shabby light armor drew an answer laced with derision.
Four low laughs, one reply. Nearly dead ahead. Aslan marked the direction in his body while loosening his grip on the waterskin.
"You already know. The War God put a bounty on your head. A fat one. Word is they'll make the man who brings you in a priest."
It was exactly what Aslan expected. He let out a breath.
"There's over twenty of us. We've got a mage. It's not like we're gonna eat you. Just come along quietly and—"
Instead of an answer, Aslan hurled the waterskin with his left hand.
It flew in a spinning arc. The mercenary who watched that skin whip straight into the darkness felt a flicker of astonishment at the accuracy even as he swung his axe.
Thwack!
A wet bursting sound erupted as the waterskin split open, spraying its contents everywhere.
There was no need to confirm that the man who had struck it was now drenched from head to toe.
The stench hit his nostrils instantly. Revolted by the foul smell and slick texture, the axe-wielding mercenary spat a curse.
"What the hell is—"
He hadn't yet realized the liquid was oil mixed with pine resin when Aslan's finger pointed his way.
"Ignite."
With a soft pop, something shot from the fingertip and embedded itself in the oil-soaked mercenary.
A spark.
On its own it could never inflict a real wound—a localized burn at most. A paltry trick.
But more than enough to set oil alight.
The spark caught into a flame, then the man went up like a torch. The sudden pillar of fire erupted, pushing back the air, and disturbed leaves rustled in the gust.
The sight of their comrade inexplicably ablaze rattled the crossbowmen. Their aim wavered.
Before they could steady it, Aslan moved. He kicked over the pot hanging above the campfire and murmured a word.
A sharp clang rang out as the pot overturned. The campfire died, and darkness swallowed the clearing.
"Shoot! Shoot!"
Thwip-thwip-thwung!
The bolts flew belatedly, but no screams followed. They'd missed.
While the crossbowmen swallowed their panic and cranked their weapons to reload, the other mercenaries tried to take stock.
A moonless night that let not a single ray of light into the forest.
Their own positions plainly exposed by their burning comrade, while Aslan had vanished into the dark.
And the name that followed that man.
Master of Combat.
A mercenary felt morale flicker and fought to steady himself. He opened his mouth—
"Shields u—"
His head rose clean off his shoulders. A beat later, both it and his body hit the ground.
Standing beside the corpse was Aslan. He stood there, his eyes coldly settled on the mercenaries.
Just then the burning man finally fell silent forever as the flames guttered out. Absolute darkness reclaimed the forest.
The mercenaries stared into it with dawning horror.
A group.
A group must open its mouth to communicate.
And the moment someone opened his mouth to give orders, to take command, Aslan struck.
The next man in the chain of command tried to shout an order. Aslan lunged in and drove the longsword home. The keen edge bit into the man's throat and tore it out. The attack was savagely precise, like a lion seizing its prey.
Blood fountained. Aslan wrenched the blade free and pulled back.
He retreated, swept the sword wide, and the tip split a chest open. One more man fell. The mercenaries could feel the presence among them—someone with clear and absolute killing intent—but they could not move easily.
They had not worn proper armor for the ambush. That meant they were defenseless.
Quilted gambesons were nowhere near enough to stop a master's blade-work.
And to counterattack meant risking a wild swing or a missed shot striking a comrade.
The moment that happened, panic would set in, they'd start hacking blindly, and they'd tear each other apart. The mercenaries, veterans of skirmishes all, realized this and swallowed hard.
Aslan, on the other hand—that man could swing in any direction and still guarantee a kill. And yet he was unleashing precise attacks with a carefully honed blade.
That realization bred hesitation, and hesitation became an opening. The briefest of openings, but it was enough.
Aslan lunged again, thrust the tip of his blade forward, and a mercenary crumpled to the ground with a wet cough, his heart pierced.
The number of the dead mounted, and the mage mixed among the mercenaries bit down on his lip.
When the first man caught fire he'd thought they could use it as illumination. It hadn't worked out that way.
Aslan had used the firelight to cut a man down in a single stroke and shatter their morale, and the fire had gone out almost immediately.
There was no choice. He would lose the advantage of the ambush and the safety of not being a primary target, but if he did nothing, they were all going to die like dogs.
The mage thrust his hand upward, gathered his mana, and loosed it into the air.
A bright sphere bloomed against the night sky, and the shadow-choked forest was laid bare.
When the dark peeled back, the number of mercenaries still standing had shrunk sharply. Five remained, including the mage. Of the twenty-odd men, fifteen had been butchered and lay scattered across the ground.
Aslan rushed the five survivors.
"Ignite."
He ran at them, pointed a finger at the mage, and murmured.
A flash burst from his forearm as the spark shot forth. The petty heat, barely sufficient to cause a burn, flew straight into the mage's wide eyes—eyes that had been straining against the dark.
The mage's scream and the mercenaries' enraged howls erupted at the same moment.
"Fuck! Fuck! Kill him! Kill him!"
"You son of a bitch!"
As the mage doubled over clutching his eyes, Aslan and four mercenaries charged at one another.
Aslan watched them come, then flung his shield.
Clang!
"Guh—"
A mercenary hastily swept his axe down and knocked the spinning shield aside, but before it even hit the ground Aslan was on him, sword swinging.
Shiing!
The blade swept clean across the throat and came away with a spray of blood. The mercenary staggered, clutching his neck.
Aslan stepped on the man's foot and drove a shoulder into him.
The mercenary coming up right behind his comrade let out a bewildered sound as the dying man was shoved into him.
He caught the body—and Aslan's longsword came down from above and split his skull.
Crack!
Two men dead before they could draw another breath. Behind them, a spearman hesitated at the sight of the corpses blocking his path.
He died without even a twitch of resistance as the blade punched through his eye socket.
Blood pattered hot against the earth. The last mercenary understood: if he didn't ignore the bodies and attack, he was dead.
But Aslan was faster. He kicked a corpse and sent it tumbling into the charging mercenary.
The corpse, limbs still twitching, collapsed onto him. The mercenary lost his sword and fell.
"What— fuck, fuck!"
Thunk.
The longsword drove into the fallen man's head. Four men had become four corpses in a heartbeat.
With his men cut down, the mage finally lifted his head, still gripping his face.
Blood streamed from his eye socket as he gasped for breath.
They had been a force of twenty. They'd left their proper armor behind for the night raid, true, but they'd come fully armed. Plenty of crossbows among them.
Now all of them lay dead. The mage chewed on that miserable fact and yanked the mace from his belt.
Even after killing twenty men, Aslan didn't have a scratch on him.
His armor and shield bore marks from deflected blows, but his body was clean of anything resembling a wound.
He was simply catching his breath, showing no sign of exhaustion at all.
To the mage, that looked utterly despairing.
He stood trembling, clutching his mace.
He was barely an apprentice mage who had only grasped the fundamentals of the Manifestation School. Facing a veteran warrior without a single piece of heavy armor on his own body was not a fight with favorable odds.
But there was no path but to fight. The mage lifted his mace and rushed forward.
The Manifestation School realized magic by scattering all manner of properties and essences into the world.
His skill was not high, but it had always been enough to tip the balance in close-quarters combat.
He would make it so again. Clinging to his last hope, the mage extended his hand.
The hand thrust out from a low stance flared brilliantly, as if gathering all the light around it and crushing it into his palm.
No hand sign, no incantation required—a simple lesser magic. The "Flash" ignited from that hand.
Blaze!
The burst of blinding light tore across the night. The mage pictured victory in his mind, tightened his grip on the mace, and twisted his body into the strike.
A Flash was light that erupted the moment the caster willed it into being.
Look straight at it and you risked going blind. There would be no way to react to a Flash detonating right in front of your face.
And a blinded man could not dodge a mace. The mage swung the weapon he'd been gripping so tightly in a wide arc. The angular steel, laden with killing intent, sliced through the corona of light.
Whoom.
It never connected. Aslan simply pulled his foot back and evaded it lightly.
A crack split the smile that had bloomed on the mage's face. He peered ahead with his one remaining eye.
There stood Aslan. In his shabby light armor and cloak, holding the notched longsword.
The man's eyes were closed. And his sword was raised high overhead.
The faint trail of magic seeping from those closed lids was unmistakable, obvious even to an apprentice.
'Olfactory sight magic...?!'
The mercenary band and their mage had crossed the forest wearing only light gear for the night raid and tracked Aslan to his camp.
The distance had not been short. They had sweated through their clothes. There was no hiding their scent.
'But since when—?'
When they had surrounded the camp for the ambush, Aslan's eyes had been open.
If he'd cast a spell, there should have been an incantation or a hand sign to give it away.
Unless he had cast it before they ever surrounded him—unless he had anticipated they would reach this spot and used the magic ahead of time.
'He knew from the very start...'
The mage's thoughts went no further. The raised blade came crashing down.
Thwock.
A cleaving stroke aimed at the crown of the head. The blow split the mage's skull in two.
The mage's body convulsed once, then went limp, and Aslan shoved the dead man's body off his blade with the sword itself and let it drop to the ground.
Thud.
With the mage dead, the illumination he'd conjured slowly guttered out.
As the darkness pushed in like a rising tide, Aslan wore a complicated expression. He stooped, picked up the mage's mace, and tucked it into his belt.
He had planned to stay in the forest for the day and move on afterwards, but that no longer looked possible.
"—The sound came from over there—"
From the distance, the noise of the main body of mercenaries on the move reached him. Aslan looked toward the source of the sound, collected a few more weapons from the bodies, and left the clearing.
To survive.